


Across the Sea

by Siadea



Series: Across the Sea [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Disassociation, Gaslighting, M/M, Rabbits, Sexual Abuse, Tyelpe in Numenor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:05:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siadea/pseuds/Siadea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron steals a soul from Mandos and brings it to Númenor. It isn't the same person by the time he's done with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Númenor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simaetha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/gifts).



> Is this going to be an actual AU premise now? Oh god, I think it is. Inspired by [this post](http://magpiescholar.tumblr.com/post/138432131207/i-dont-normally-believe-in-elves-getting-reborn) and crossposted from Tumblr.
> 
> Also, animal death in the first chapter. Second chapter is safe for bunnies.

Khimil knows that he is very privileged, for someone so eminent as Tar-Mairon to take him as his own. (Tar-Mairon does not approve of this thought; "You are perfect," says Tar-Mairon, "and you should never belong to anyone but me. No one else deserves you.") 

The nurse Tar-Mairon provides tells him, when he is small, about secrets: white ships and things across the Sea, about twelve gods who are not Great Mulkher. She tells him never to speak of it to anyone, and Khimil never does, but Tar-Mairon does not like it when Khimil tries to hide things from him. Khimil watches her be given to the flames the next day. Tar-Mairon honors him by giving him a bite of her flesh from his own plate.

Tar-Mairon hears everything. Tar-Mairon knows everything. When Khimil begins to dream, he tells Tar-Mairon of it, and asks if what he dreams really happened. Tar-Mairon listens to him, and asks about everything as though he already knew, and in the end tells Khimil that they didn't; they are just dreams, and he should pay no heed to them. Khimil tries, but not very hard. He likes the dreams, of a man and woman who call him their son, and of many kind elves who are not slaves, and who call him nephew. As he grows, the dreams become darker and bloodier, but the people in them are almost never held down as they are killed, and are almost always fighting back. 

"Did I have another name once?" he asks.   
"Did you dream one?" Tar-Mairon says. "Tell me."  
Khimil does his best: "Ty..elpey? Ti-hel-perin-khar."  
Tar-Mairon laughs. "Does that sound like a name, my dear?"  
"...No, Tar-Mairon."  
"There you have it, then. But tell me if you have another dream about it, my darling."

Once he tries to run away. No one can touch him; he is carved with Tar-Mairon's own sigil, and so it is easy for him to hide on an outgoing ship. He is discovered, though, and Tar-Mairon is so furious he puts the entire crew to death. Khimil begs for them, presses his face to Tar-Mairon's boots and pleads, but Tar-Mairon performs the ceremonies himself. "This is your fault, Khimil," he says, and has Khimil eat of each one. 

Eventually, he dreams of Tar-Mairon. Tar-Mairon knows when it begins; Khimil cannot stop blushing. Tar-Mairon takes him to bed then; it is some years later before he stops. Khimil knows he should be disappointed, but can only be relieved. (He is not very surprised when he dreams of Tar-Mairon killing him. By this time he has seen Tar-Mairon kill a great many people.)

Tar-Mairon teaches him many things: about songs, and creation, and secret things he is never to tell anyone of. Tar-Mairon pricks Khimil's tongue, drawing blood, and makes him _unable_ to speak of some of those things. Eventually he creates things with Tar-Mairon, but this is more frightening than rewarding. Tar-Mairon expects to see someone else in Khimil's place, the man Khimil dreamed of being, but Khimil is not Tihelperinkhar. Knowing who Tar-Mairon wants to see gives Khimil the courage to pretend, though, enough that Tar-Mairon no longer shouts at him.

He likes most of the queens, and crafts them necklaces and bracelets and anklets and earrings to suit each one's beauty. He puts little amusements into each jewel: what contentment he can sing into them, the ability to dream waking through unpleasant things, whatever Khimil finds beautiful and distracting.

He sculpts, and enjoys sculpting. Sometimes he puts some of the faces he dreams about onto the statues. He makes a devotional figure of Great Mulkher with blazing eyes and a passionate face that he remembers thinking of as godlike, a face that he remembers seeing railing against utter darkness, and when he sees it Tar-Mairon laughs until he can't breathe. It is hailed as a great success; Tar-Mairon smiles whenever he passes it. Still, Tar-Mairon forbids him from ever using that face again.

As a hobby, he takes up rabbit-breeding. Tar-Mairon gazes at him with blank incomprehension, but does not forbid it. Khimil likes them; they are lively and soft, and often afraid, but he breeds them for wool and for friendliness, and they come to like him. (Tar-Mairon insists that Khimil wring the necks of the culls himself. Khimil becomes very good at it, but also very good at diversifying strains of his pets instead. The palace's wool becomes a much-sought-after trade item.) He dreams of a fair man that he calls uncle, teaching him how to speak the language of rabbits, and uses that knowledge to ensure his own are as happy and healthy as they can be. The palace slaves think him very odd for it, but Khimil cares nothing of their thoughts. His pets are useful, and if he chooses to groom his favorites personally, no one will object to any stray fur on his robes save Tar-Mairon, who can be put off by Khimil's disrobing.

He loves the Tree in ways he can't explain even to Tar-Mairon. He loves it more as it begins to die.

He saves a man, once, the night before the Tree is burnt. Khimil thinks it is one of the Faithful, come to steal a memento as Khimil did, and keeps his eyes away from the man, so that Tar-Mairon will not be able to recognize him through Khimil's sight. Instead he talks with the guards, who are frightened enough of Khimil that they only listen to him prattle on about what scent the Tree might have as it burns, and how Khimil would have chosen to make a statue of Great Mulkher of the wood had it been given him, but of course the King and Tar-Mairon know best; still, the courtyard will seem empty; perhaps a statue of Great Mulkher in gold or marble? Or the King himself?

Tar-Minyatur himself comes to Khimil one night, aged and sorrowful. "I am so sorry," he says, and, "You will be home soon."   
Khimil asks, dispassionately, "Are we all going to die?" and Tar-Minyatur nods.   
"I'll have to kill the rabbits first," Khimil says without thinking. "They would be afraid."   
Tar-Minyatur asks, "Are _you_ afraid, Khimil?" and Khimil looks at him without comprehension.


	2. In Valinor

Khimil is not reborn as a child again - he is told by the servants of Mandos that Tar-Mairon has lost much of his power, but is not gone from the world, and so it is not safe. (Khimil had never thought that Tar-Mairon died at all, but he does not tell the Maiar this.) He is brought back as himself, the age he was when he died - but not alone. The ruler of the dead has been wroth that Tihelperinkhar's spirit was stolen from his halls, and so Mandos assigns a guard to him lest Tar-Mairon attempt to steal him once more. Khimil is expecting a dog or hound, like Huan had been, or even something shaped as a man. Instead Mandos gifts him with a sleek black rabbit, and Khimil smiles, remembering a few of his own rabbits who were not the docile, friendly animals he bred for. Khimil does not for a moment believe that a rabbit could protect him from Tar-Mairon, or call upon Námo the way he has been told, but then, Khimil does not really believe the story that Huan had vanquished him, either.

(Khimil lays on his chest in the garden, Mandos's gift digging away in the earth and paying him little mind. "That was very rude," he tells the rabbit. "You have bothered the servants, you know. It should not be their work to clean up after you. You have also given offense to the queen Indis, for she shall have to replace that door, and it was well-made. Nor did I like being awoken in such a manner! That was very unpleasant, and I know that you know that. You should stay with your own people, you will be happier there, and I will not live in a rabbit warren for your convenience." The rabbit looks at him, and comes forward, pressing its head and chest to the ground. "No," Khimil says, but acquiesces to the silent command that he stroke the sleek ears. "No, I shall not yield in that. If you must have access to my rooms, I shall make an entrance for you. You are not a horse or hound, or even a cat, to walk with me always. If Mandos has made you otherwise, I hope he has also made you such that I will not need to forever tidy after you, because I shall not do it." He names the rabbit Rhun, because it does insist on following him as a dog would, and leaves very little mess behind itself. Khimil finds it eerie at first, but eventually comes to the conclusion that the servants of Mandos were simply not as familiar with the actual animal when they made this creature for him. He does learn that he still must watch Rhun carefully when it comes to loose-woven rugs and carved wood, but the queen Indis laughs away his apologies, saying that the gifts of the Valar are not to be scolded. (Khimil does not heed her in this when it comes to his bedposts and chairs.)

The elves from his dreams were not expecting Khimil; they had wanted Celebrimbor. Khimil does not know Quenya; his dreams had been in his heart's-language, and that had been Aduniac. He remembers his dreams of learning Sindarin, and so that is what he uses. They think him very young, and Khimil lets them. Dreams are hardly the same as life, and time passed is not time living. There are decades upon decades that Khimil recalls only vaguely. 

His cousins often invite him to dine with them, as though reluctant to let him eat alone. The first time he eats with them, he looks at the meat on his plate, and does not eat it. One of his new-old cousins comments on this, and Khimil is too afraid to repeat that small defiance the next night. His kind cousin Finrod sees, and steals the meat from Khimil's plate as a child might. They do not offer it to him after that, and Khimil is grateful.

"I see a lot of Tyelpe in you, actually," his cousin Finrod says. "Always waiting for something."  
"Nargothrond was much like Númenor," Khimil agrees, and Finrod laughs, holding a hand to his chest.  
"Not the most ringing endorsement of my city, Khimil! You're not wrong, though. I hope you find whatever you're waiting for."  
"Thank you," Khimil says politely. He doesn't really feel that he's waiting for anything, but he does not like to contradict others.

Elves he never knew, who were Khimil's own parents and not Celebrimbor's, ask the palace if they may see him. They are Sylvan, the sort of wood-elves that were easy for Númenor to capture because no king claimed them as subjects. He meets with them, but there is no feeling in his heart at all when they throw themselves at his feet and beg his pardon. "The Accursed," his mother weeps, and Khimil realizes that she means Tar-Mairon, "he said that he would free us," and his father says, "he said he would make her life worse than the meanest slaves of Angband if I refused him," but his mother looks up at Khimil and says with sudden ferocity, "I made him swear! I made him swear on the Ever-flame and the Void and on his Master that he would not harm you, and that he would not let harm come to you by anyone's hand or thought!"

"He is not forsworn," Khimil answers, and it is true: his body had borne Tar-Mairon's sigil, but Tar-Mairon had carven it himself when Khimil was a child, and had let no pain touch him, and had healed the bloody wounds into perfect scars in moments. Tar-Mairon had kissed his forehead afterward, and wiped the blood from him, and apologized for the need of it. Khimil, who had seen others screaming, branded as cattle were, had not understood why. But this reassurance does not seem to help the elves who are his parents, and they leave little better than they had been.

Everyone keeps expecting him to seek out a forge, or some craft to occupy his mind, as Celebrimbor had. The thought makes Khimil stand very quietly until he can demur with courtesy. The forge is inextricably tied to Tar-Mairon in his mind; Tar-Mairon had always had the habit of coming in silently to watch Khimil working. Craft was not the thing that it had been for Celebrimbor. He has no need to breed his rabbits either; Rhun will not die of old age. He sculpts and paints a little, but does not keep the results after they make one of the servants cry. 

He wanders on foot a great deal. (Rhun is much more tolerant of this than a true rabbit would be; nor does he mind when Khimil must carry him. The servants of Mandos had not studied their subject well.) He has no need of a guard or accompaniment, despite what Celebrimbor's family thinks. Khimil has Celebrimbor's memories of fighting, after all, and what Tar-Mairon taught him besides. Tar-Mairon had not wanted anyone but him to touch Khimil; Khimil hopes he will have no opportunity to use what Tar-Mairon showed him. Some of it he still cannot speak of.

The deer find him first. A small muntjac leaps over the fallen branch that Khimil was resting on, turning to look at him with wide dark eyes. Khimil holds still, then looks away deliberately. Deer, he recalls Celebrimbor's uncle saying, do not like to be stared at. Turning his head, though, reveals a roe deer, his antlers shedding velvet out of season, pausing to rub his face against a tree. Three does surround him, a fourth trotting to join their group. 

The presence of the Dancer descends lightly as the Valie herself weaves through the brush, her own doe's form no disguise for her power. Khimil freezes and averts his gaze again, this time out of respect. He looks at Rhun instead; the rabbit is balanced on his hind legs, ears pricked. Thus it is that he only sees the doe from the corner of his eye as she noses at his hand. Reflex turns him to look, and the Dancer smiles up at him, crouched on human feet and resting her fingertips on the muntjac's back.

She says nothing, and so Khimil says nothing, and then it becomes moot because a hare leaps from her crouch, twisting midair to land, spring forward, and then bounce again. This time she lands in front of dignified Rhun, who sniffs her. She nips him, and Rhun dashes across the clearing, ending his run with a twisting bound. The Valie chases him, playful as any tame rabbit. Khimil smiles despite himself, and the muntjac lies down at his feet. The roebuck scrapes velvet from his antlers; his does sniff through the leaves for strands of grass. 

Eventually Rhun flings himself down onto his side, panting, and refuses to rise even when the hare digs at his flank. Khimil laughs as she gives up and comes to scratch at his feet instead. He has not forgotten that she is a Vala, though, and he is not surprised when dark, slender hands take his, pulling him to his feet and into a dance of his own. He stumbles a few times, over branches and once into a hole disguised by fallen leaves, but the Dancer does not seem disappointed, lifting Khimil free and twirling him; her power laps around them and Khimil's knee is healed by the time she puts him back on the ground. They dance on, and just when Khimil is tiring, the Vala guides him back to the fallen branch he had been seated on, and the doe springs over him. She prances to the herd of deer, butting her head as though to lock nonexistent horns with the buck, and then the woman is running fleet and barefoot through the brush, her attendants racing after her. One of the deer does not follow; the Dancer somersaults over her, laughing, and runs on.

Some days later, a smiling Indis gifts Khimil with a pair of supple woven shoes.


	3. In the Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomatoes themselves are fine for bunnies, but NOT the leaves or stems! Rhun knows not to eat those because he's magical. Your bunny does not.

Khimil begins to pay more attention to the workings of Queen Indis's household. The Vanyar live simply: even Ingwe Ingweron does not dwell in what Khimil would call a palace. He has thought that the queen dowager was merely in her summer home, but this is her only residence. She even tends her own garden, a garden that provides some part of their food, and seems to take a great deal of joy in it. Guiltily, Khimil begins trying to fix the damage Rhun has done. The queen has only ever laughed at the rabbit's depredations, but Khimil knows better. She seems delighted by Khimil's efforts, however poor, and offers him a piece of her garden to groom as he sees fit. In the interests of sparing Indis's prized tomatoes, Khimil accepts. (Rhun is of no help whatsoever.)

In apparent collusion with the queen, his cousin Finrod invites him to visit his greenhouses and their denizens. Khimil knows from his dreams that Finrod was enamored of exotic reptiles even in guarded Nargothrond, and in the safety of Valinor, he has become truly immoderate. He remembers that discussing the care of Finrod's pets had been the one subject upon which his father, uncle, and cousin could converse semi-civilly. In Valinor, Finrod is a pleasant conversational partner; they speak of Númenor and its people, and Adûniac's changes over the years, and he never asks why Khimil does not do as Celebrimbor would.

Finrod becomes something of a friend - Celebrimbor had friends, and dear ones, but Khimil has not. They always came to an ill fate, and it was safer inside his head. Few of the elves Khimil knows want to hear about Númenor, but Finrod is eager for his stories, and only blinks at the parts that those in Valinor cringe at. Nor is Finrod afraid or disgusted when Khimil mentions Tar-Mairon, as he invariably must. 

Over wine, in a humid greenhouse bright with plants and jewel-colored frogs, Finrod tells Khimil of Taur-in-Gaurhoth. "Speaking," Finrod says with drunken cheer, "of things no one wants to hear about!" Khimil drinks only enough to be companionable; he does not care for inebriation, but Finrod does not mind. Khimil listens carefully as Finrod speaks, of hearing his most loyal friends die in the dark, of hearing the werewolves come for them, and being able to do nothing but listen.

Khimil dares to say, "I have always thought... of the terrible things that our kin have done... I have thought, 'but at least those they killed could fight them! Even if they died, at least they were not bound. At least they could fight.'" 

Finrod sits straight up, spilling some of his wine. "Exactly!" he cries. "That is the most terrible of deeds, to take away one's ability to _resist._ Gorthaur knew that well, he's known it for ever. I like to think," and a wild light enters his eyes, "I like to think I taught him a few things about resistance."

Khimil must have drunk more than he meant to, because he laughs aloud. "You did! Do you know, you did! The sacrifices, they were always gagged, not with cloth or leather, but with _metal._ I never understood that, but I see now: Tar-Mairon would not have a second Felagund!"

Finrod laughs, covering his face. "Ai, it's wrong to laugh, it's terrible, those poor people - and yet!"

*

"You did not speak so often to Celebrimbor," Khimil mentions one day, a little curious.

His cousin Finrod smiles. "Well, you're not Celebrimbor." 

He says it so simply, as though it were readily apparent. Khimil feels something tighten in his chest, and does not understand why his mouth has softened and his eyes are wet. He has hardly ever wept; he touches his fingers to his eyelids and is silent.

Finrod's smile gentles; he crouches to pick Rhun up, a little awkwardly, and Rhun kicks out to escape him. He presses the rabbit into Khimil's more practiced arms, and studies the garden with too much attentiveness.

*

Khimil meets and becomes acquainted with Amarië, Finrod's betrothed. Betrothed, not married, not even after all this time. He does not understand what leads her to confide in him about it. 

"He talks to you," she explains. "I'm almost jealous, because he doesn't speak about such things with me. I've told him time and again, I don't care if he's a different person, _I'm_ not the same person either, but he still pretends that he is, and I can _tell_ he's doing it for my sake, and ai, it drives me mad!"

"Most people don't want to hear about it - the unpleasantness," Khimil says, looking at Rhun rather than Amarië. "It upsets them." He glances at her face, and then back down, not wanting to contradict her. "It, it may be that you are being... sympathetic? And yet he feels he is disturbing you?"

"So I should just..." Amarië waves her hands. "Sit there, and not say anything about how terrible it must have been?"

"Perhaps? I'm sorry, I don't know," Khimil says, worried.

"Oh, sea-stars, now I've upset _you_ ," Amarië says, and puts her hand to her mouth. "I didn't mean to. You needn't have all the answers, Khimil, I doubt the Valar themselves could answer me the question of Findárato Arafinwion!"

Tar-Mairon could, Khimil thinks, but does not say.

*

Sometimes the three of them speak together; Amarië tells Khimil that it helps Finrod be more honest with her. Once, Amarië asks if Celebrimbor ever thought of marriage.

"Celebrimbor would never have wed!" Khimil objects, more forcefully than he had intended. "He thought it would be very irresponsible of him."

"Oh," says Finrod, "I see! Yes, of course he would have."

"...I don't see at all," says Amarië, frowning.

"He did not think he could ask anyone to share in his House," Khimil says, "Not until it was cleansed. He was always waiting until he thought he could mend it somehow." Khimil shrugs. "He never finished that task to his satisfaction."

"So, Celebrimbor wouldn't even think of marriage. Have _you?_ " Amarië asks Khimil, smiling, and he understands that she means it in play.

"I have not considered it," he says warily. As Celebrimbor, he had almost wedded Annatar; by the laws of the Noldor, Khimil himself _was_ wed to Tar-Mairon. It had not been legal in Númenor, of course, for a lord to wed a slave, however beloved, but Khimil finds that he does not want to know if the Eldar would disagree.

"Let me know if you decide!" Amarië says, so brightly that she must have seen his discomfort, but Finrod watches Khimil, and says nothing.

It is some days later that Finrod speaks to him of that conversation. 

"I've asked Elu Thingol to meet with you," Finrod says. "You needn't, of course, but I thought if anyone could help you shield your mind against a Maia, it would be he."

Khimil freezes, and breathes through it. He had not wanted to know what the Noldor thought, and yet here it is regardless. His cousin has not addressed the matter directly, which is a kindness, but it is not a coincidence that Finrod chose the husband of Melian as Khimil's tutor. 

"I'm sorry," Finrod says.


	4. In Elu Thingol's Stronghold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical consent issues, some lack of wound hygiene. Disassociation, but this is Khimil, so you knew that.

Elu Thingol is not well-pleased by Finrod's request. "I don't care for your kinslaying family," he tells Khimil, "Don't thank me for this, thank Felagund."

Khimil steadies himself, feels Rhun sitting against his ankle. He is wearing the shoes that Indis gave him; they are patterned with deer. He has never dared anything like this before, but he cannot continue without making himself understood. He _will_ not continue otherwise. "Celebrimbor renounced his father," Khimil says, forcing his voice not to shake. "And I am _not_ Celebrimbor. I am descended of wood-elves, and born in Numenor-that-drowned. I am honored to call Finrod my cousin and his House my relations, but it is their kindness to claim me thus and no more."

Elu Thingol leans forward in his chair - not quite a throne, but not unlike either - and studies him more thoughtfully. "Two Valar have taken an interest in you," he says, his gaze dipping briefly to Khimil's feet. "Perhaps I'll learn why." The king offers his hand. "Shall we begin?"

Khimil, a little stunned at how easily Thingol accepts his declaration, presses his hand to Elu Thingol's, laying down all his mental defenses obediently. Tar-Mairon has told him that others would seek to harm him, that he was special, and that he must take extra precautions to hide and shield himself, but Khimil trusts Finrod's judgment, and he thinks Thingol may have believed Khimil when he says he is not Celebrimbor. He opens all his roads to Elu Thingol as he would for Tar-Mairon, even the most secret.

Thingol whips his hand away from Khimil's, horror and pity warring with disgust. "Your mind is an open wound!" He springs to his feet, pacing as a tiger might. "Curse Finrod!" he says. 

Khimil blinks at him. He does not feel particularly wounded.

"Did no one ever teach you anything about osanu?" Elu Thingol demands.

"Yes?" Khimil hazards. Celebrimbor's parents had taught him what all young elves learned; Tar-Mairon had taught him more.

"And no one said _that_ was not normal?"

Khimil is silent; Tar-Mairon had said so, and kissed him, and said that it was a matter for the two of them, and no one else. He judges that Thingol would not like that answer.

"No, you are no courtier here," Elu Thingol says, lifting a hand as if to stop him. Khimil is not sure what his miss-step was, and so he waits, hoping for an explanation. Thingol obliges, saying, "There is no hope that silence may redeem you. I will not like your words, but I must hear them regardless."

Khimil nods. Sometimes Tar-Mairon had gotten into such moods as well. "Yes, I was told that it was a, a private matter for myself and..." He hesitates, unsure of how to name Tar-Mairon to Thingol.

"I am no Golodh, to flinch at a mere name," Elu Thingol says irritably. "Use whatever title you knew Sauron by."

"Tar-Mairon," Khimil says, and hears some of Celebrimbor's curtness in his own voice. "He is Tar-Mairon to me."

"Very well. This work is beyond my skill, Khimil of Númenor, and I do not say that often. I must ask Melian if she can find it out what has been done here."

The Queen, when she comes, is not as frightening as Khimil had feared. She inspects Khimil like a bird would, her head cocked. One of the nightingales that flock to her has perched on a lavender bush and is inspecting Rhun much the same way. "Yes," she says, "I think I see the problem. Khimil, did Gorthaur ever mark your skin in any fashion?"

"He drew blood from my tongue," Khimil answers, "and put his symbol on my chest. There was no pain."

"Really? Hmm..." Melian clicks her tongue. "Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for what I would like to try." She glances at her husband. "May I?"

Khimil sits straight and braces himself. "Yes." Tar-Mairon had told him once that the sound of his consent was very important; it had to do with the Music of Creation. For those who could not speak, even the clapping of hands would suffice.

The queen speaks a Word; then another, when the first has no effect. She lifts her voice in song, and then in Song. Khimil feels nothing at first, and then flinches. He can taste blood, and his shirt sticks wetly to his chest. It hurts, as it had not when Tar-Mairon had cut him. He swallows the blood and is silent, lest he disturb the Maia at her work.

Rhun comes, rising to his hind legs and sniffing at Khimil; Khimil smiles down at him, and quickly closes his mouth before blood can drip down his chin. His shirt is darkening with it, and he hopes that the cloth will not be stained beyond repair.

"Mela," says Thingol, "Mela, enough. He's bleeding." He is frowning, and Khimil licks blood nervously from his lips. Is Thingol concerned about the chair's upholstery? Khimil sits himself forward a little just in case.

"Well, yes," says Melian, as though it were obvious, and reaches for Khimil. Khimil freezes, and finds his eyes going to Thingol - why, he is not sure, but it must have been correct, for Melian's husband touches her wrist and prevents her. Thingol clears his throat, and the queen blinks. "Oh, of course. Khimil, I must look at the marks on your chest."

Khimil nods and unfastens his robe obediently, baring himself to the waist. He tries to take care that the bloody fabric not touch his chair, and thinks that he succeeds fairly well. Rhun rises up and puts his paws on Khimil's knee, sniffing at him, and Khimil offers the rabbit the cleanest of his fingers.

Melian is frowning at Khimil and the marks upon him. "How crude. Well, Gorthaur never much studied the art of the mind. I would have used much subtler means. You consented to this marking?"

"Yes," Khimil says, "when I was a child. It seemed better than the brand."

"You know what it means?"

"It is Tar-Mairon's sigil," Khimil explains. "It marks me as his property." Thingol makes a sound, crossing his arms and looking very wroth. Khimil winces away from him.

Melian, though, taps her finger against her lips. "Well. That's certainly true enough. Elue, what think you?"

"It's an obscenity," says Elu Thingol shortly, and turns to Khimil. "He used your rhaw as a map to your fae, opening it to him and putting his mark upon it."

Khimil nods. "I did not know it when I was a child," he offers, "but after I had grown, and Tar-Mairon had shown me more of his arts, I looked at myself in a mirror and saw as much."

"So you know? You've known the entire time?" Elu Thingol demands, drawing back. "That you were his spy, and he used your senses as he might his own?"

"Yes?" Khimil looks from king to queen, uncertain. "I have been careful," he explains, "I have always been careful to make sure I did not see things that would - that would displease him, or that people... might not wish him to see..." In Valinor, too, he has never visited the docks, or the Pelori, or anything that the Valar might use to defend their land.

Rhun scrabbles at his leg, and Khimil, relieved to turn his attention away from the king and queen, tries to stroke Rhun's head and ears. Rhun springs into Khimil's lap instead, licking at the free-flowing blood on his chest. "Rhun!" Khimil exclaims, "You're getting blood everywhere, it will stain! That is rude!"

When he looks up again from trying to keep Rhun from dirtying himself, with little success, he sees Thingol accepting another set of robes, an ewer of water, and bandages from a servant. The queen Melian has turned to watch her husband, smiling. (It is the smile that Tar-Mairon had worn for Celebrimbor, and sometimes for Khimil.) Thingol is frowning, though, and Khimil cringes away from the fierceness of his looks.

"Beloved, is there aught you can do for him now, or shall we send him back to his rooms?" Thingol asks, and Khimil knows that the king is angry: no enemy of Tar-Mairon's would like to have his eyes upon them. Khimil looks down at Rhun instead, who is now smeared with blood. Khimil's chest is sticky, and now covered in little black hairs as well. It's not good for the wounds, but Khimil doesn't mind yet. (He knows he will later, once the fur has begun to itch.) His fingers are now coated in fur as well; Khimil rubs them together futilely. He remembers Tar-Mairon telling him not to fidget, but it does not help him calm himself.

The queen is speaking: "No, I don't want to move in haste and potentially damage Khimil's fae. It's brutish work that Gorthaur has done here, but he's done it well, and I am sure he's put safeguards in his runes."

Khimil tells Rhun, very very softly, "Tar-Mairon liked to use counter-inflexions sometimes. He said they were very difficult to detect without knowing to look for them."

"I'd wondered if you had any opinion on this yourself," Elu Thingol says, but Khimil does not want to look at him, and so he focuses on rubbing away dried blood from Rhun's fur. Nothing has happened. He has only spoken to Rhun, and Rhun does not talk. The queen said herself that she would be searching for treachery. Tar-Mairon would be upset if she damaged Khimil. Nothing has happened.

He goes back to the rooms he has been given in Thingol's stronghold in a new robe, with his chest cleaned and bandaged. His tongue has stopped bleeding.


	5. The Second Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A medical procedure. Khimil going into mild shock. Excessively detailed description of injury. Brief flashback.

Khimil is prepared, when the king and queen next ask him to meet with them. He has dressed with more care - a tunic and pants, both dark in color, and of no rare fabric. The king and queen have dressed likewise plainly, and there is a bench, with bandages and ointments and an implement by it. It is a wide rasp, wrought of copper and graven with silver runes. Its use is obvious.

"I am sorry," the queen says, watching him look at the rasp. "I cannot use a finer touch than Gorthaur had; I must borrow his methods or risk leaving something behind. I can see from your dress that you thought so as well."

Khimil nods. "I am glad that you do not see fit to use any deeper ways," he offers.

"Not unless we must," the queen says. The king looks at her, and she says, "I don't believe there will be such a need."

"Here, sit," the king tells him, and Khimil arranges himself on the bench to their satisfaction. The queen has Khimil lay down; he can dangle one hand from the bench and touch Rhun's back if he wants, without interfering in her work. The king sits by Khimil's head, as if to observe. The queen drips something cool onto Khimil's chest, speaking a Word, and when she takes the copper rasp to Khimil's skin, he does not feel its bite.

It does not hurt, precisely, but Khimil can still feel it happen, the rough grate of his skin being scraped away. The flesh underneath it is white and colorless, seeping clear fluid, and Khimil watches as blood springs up around the edges of the abrasion, flooding it with crimson. Khimil feels very cold, and his skin looks pale, but he can feel himself sweating. (He knows this reaction is normal, but Khimil still does not like it.)

"You don't have to watch," Thingol says.

"I don't?" Khimil looks up at the king, sitting by the bench that Khimil lay on. "Tar-Mairon preferred..." Khimil tries to explain, but the king's expression darkens, and Khimil quiets.

"It will be more useful for you to listen to me," the king says, and Khimil tries to look attentive. "Gorthaur taught you a great deal about defending your mind from trespassers," Thingol says, "Yet I doubt he taught you how to defend yourself from _him._ The strongest walls will do no good against an enemy who is already inside them, as you and Gorthaur are bound."

Khimil listens, petting Rhun's head as the king explains the metaphors and allegories by which the Powers shape themselves. Some of it Tar-Mairon had spoken of, because Tar-Mairon did not trust any other Powers with Khimil's well-being, but some he had not. Elu Thingol tells Khimil that he must fill the roads and pathways of his own mind with things inimical to Tar-Mairon's strengths and his very being. Tar-Mairon's presence is already inside of Khimil, Elu Thingol says, and so it is not a matter of assault from without, but strife from within.

Elu Thingol tells Khimil to flood his mind with the Sea. "Gorthaur is a creature of fire and craft," Thingol says, "The Sea overwhelms all flame, all craft - and all artifice as well."

Khimil is not thinking of that. Khimil is thinking of Numenor's last day, of the bright sun and the roaring of far-distant water, and the way the seas had pulled back from the shore, leaving the docks dry and boats torn free of moorings. The wave had been a mountain, had been a wall. The wind had been so strong. Khimil had been glad that his pets were dead, and did not have to see that doom coming. Everyone had been screaming, running. Khimil had not. Khimil had stood quietly and watched the wave come for him. At the last, swept away and tumbled under the waves, he had panicked, had called for Tar-Mairon -

"Khimil?" the queen says, and Khimil blinks at her. His chest is covered in blood, and she has begun to use a knife instead of a grate. Her hands are bloody to the wrist, and there is a smear across her cheek, where she must have wiped at her face. "Your fae is pulling back inside your rhaw," she tells him. "Whatever troubles you, think of something else. I am almost done."

Khimil nods. He runs the wound in his tongue over his teeth absently, thinking, and then turns his gaze to Thingol. "Must it be the Sea?" he asks, and is alarmed to hear his voice quaver. Rhun's warm tongue licks at Khimil's cold fingers, and he rubs them against the rabbit's cheek.

"No," says Thingol, but he is frowning. 

"It is," Khimil begins, and has to stop almost immediately; his voice sounds strange and his throat is tight. "It is only that... I drowned. The wave that took Númenor took me as well."

Elu Thingol pales. "There is no purpose in a defense that harms yourself," he says after a moment. "You know Gorthaur as well as anyone may; you would know what he finds counter to his nature."

"I also have a few thoughts on the matter," says the queen, and speaks a Word of binding and of completion. Khimil looks at her again. She is smiling, pleased. Much of the blood has been wiped from Khimil's chest; he can see the raw flesh over his heart and a new binding around it, curlicues of mazery and thorns and walls. No one will again be able to do as Tar-Mairon had done to Khimil; the roads have been destroyed entirely, and even the rubble is walled away. 

"But not right now," Thingol says. "That will need bandaging, unless you can heal it, Mela?"

"I can heal my part of it," the queen says, swirling a finger over the traced vines. As Tar-Mairon's marks had healed instantly, so does the maze around Khimil's heart scar over with the movement - but the raw flesh remains as it is. "The rest must heal in your own time," she says to Khimil. "Else I would put _my_ influence on your rhaw and fae, which I shall not do."

"Thank you, my lady," Khimil says politely. "My lord," he adds, tilting his head to see Thingol as well. "I appreciate your help very much."

"There is no need," says the queen, and pats Khimil's knee. He reminds himself it is a parental gesture. She bids him rise, and he sits up. The queen secures a bandage over his heart, and instructs him in the care of the injury. He nods, and does not tell her that he remembers wounds and their care. It is all from Celebrimbor's life anyway; Tar-Mairon had never allowed anyone to touch him. 

"Rest," says Thingol, handing Khimil his tunic. "We will speak again in three days." Khimil is not sure what he needs so much rest for, but surely the king and queen have other matters to attend to. It is not his place to ask, and so he does not; instead he nods and pulls his tunic back on. One side of Thingol's mouth quirks; Khimil blinks at him. Thingol tells him: "Enjoy your new freedoms."

Khimil smiles, and bows to them, and goes back to his rooms. That evening, he finds that his face aches, and touches his mouth to find that he is still smiling.


	6. Elu Thingol's Tutelage

It is Thingol alone who meets with him in the garden; there are not even any servants in sight. Khimil finds himself ill at ease, and chooses to hold Rhun instead of letting the rabbit destroy more of the undergrowth.

"We speak today in strictest confidence," says Thingol, watching Khimil look at the empty places where servants would stand. It must be a matter of grave importance, then; Khimil nods obediently. 

"What do you know of the Journey, and the sundering of the Nelyar?" Thingol asks, and Khimil turns his thoughts to Celebrimbor's knowledge.

Khimil frowns, stroking Rhun's ears as he searches for neutral words: the tale he knows is not complimentary of the king or queen. "It was told me that you became lost in the forest, and some of the Nelyar stayed and sought for you..."

Thingol smiles, and Khimil flinches, for it is not a kind expression. "It's said," the king says crisply, "that my wife enchanted me for two hundred years, slumbering, and we returned only to find that some of my people had refused to leave me for dead as they should have. It is true. Now I will tell you what the stories do not know - and I would have that ignorance kept," Thingol adds sharply. 

"I was the first Quendi that Melian had seen. The forest of Nan Elmoth was her especial domain, and she knew nothing of leaders or summons." The king leans forward; Khimil watches him, fixed as a hare by a serpent. "She did not know the span of days held so much significance; she was not accustomed to keeping track of them as we do." Thingol speaks as if trying to impress understanding upon Khimil with his very voice. "How was she to know the length of our journey was so vital? What is a year - a hundred, two hundred - compared to the life of Arda itself?"

Khimil drops his gaze as Thingol says, "I was furious with her, when we came from the forest again and I saw how many years had passed. I think I had never been so angry. Mela was distraught, and begged for some way to redress the injury she did me. I told her that I never wanted to be held so helplessly in anyone's power again, and especially not hers. Do you understand?" Thingol looks at Khimil again, who nods and is silent.

"What she could not teach me, or did not know, we discovered together," says Thingol. "These are things Este knows nothing of, nor any elven healer. It is particular to us, and now also to you. Even my daughter had little need of these arts. Do not share them, and never slacken in their use. You hold more than your own secrets now, and must protect more lives than your own. Remember this."

"I will remember," says Khimil - it has the substance of an oath behind it, though not the words. 

"Good," says Elu Thingol, and sits back. "Now we can begin."

The teaching itself is not overly difficult. Elu Thingol is very patient with Khimil, and does not raise his voice at all. "I will put a mazery around your mind," says Thingol, "as Melian put her mazery around your fae, so that Gorthaur will sense nothing amiss as we practice. I cannot confuse him for ever, though, and I _will_ not remain threaded through your mind any longer than I must."

Khimil nods, and allows Thingol to take his hand, and opens his paths to the king again as he had done before. This time, Thingol walks those roads, mist billowing behind him, and he is frowning. But his steps ring out _concern,_ and he touches nothing within Khimil, not even to correct or reprimand him.

Khimil knows that Tar-Mairon abhors nothingness above anything, and so that is what he has chosen to make of his thoughts. He drains them all away, water subsiding after a flood, and leaves only faint traces of anything having once been. There is nothing for Tar-Mairon to take from him, there is nothing to direct or repurpose or use. 

The fog swirling along Thingol's tread dissolves into nothingness, the king's presence receding with it. A banked flame is rising, casting down his burning light, melting away all shadows and mists. 

Tar-Mairon is here.

Several things happen at once: Khimil feels Tar-Mairon in his mind, far off but very angry; Rhun squawks an alarm, stamping his feet; Khimil throws himself out of his chair and away from the king. Khimil can't breathe. Tar-Mairon had not given him any heed for so long now, ever since Khimil had been re-made: even his distant regard is too much. Khimil is sorry, he is so sorry, he should never have!

"Wait," commands Elu Thingol, who has risen and followed after Khimil. His mind is a pressure against Khimil's. Khimil whines like a child, hands pressed over his mouth in horror. Tar-Mairon is _so angry_ with him.

"Wait," says Thingol again, this time gently. "Think. He cannot get in, can he. I'm sure you can feel him, but he cannot _reach_ you."

Khimil, shaking, tries to make himself think. It's true: Tar-Mairon is trying to open Khimil's mind to him, use Khimil's sight, see what has poisoned Khimil against him, but he cannot. Khimil's paths are open to Tar-Mairon, but there is nothing within them. "He had forgotten me!" he cries out instead of answering. "He had paid me no mind at all until now!"

"It was not going to last," Thingol tells him, coldly, each word clipped short. "This was always going to happen. The difference is that _he cannot touch you._ "

"But now he is _angry_ with me!" Khimil shouts.

"Let him!" Thingol shouts back. "That was inevitable as well. You think he would take pleasure in your friendship with the likes of _Finrod Felagund?_ You think I gave you my secrets for naught? You are protecting more than yourself!"

Khimil breathes harshly; it is true, and _yet!_

"You can withstand this," says Elu Thingol, softly. "It is as we spoke. You have woven nets too fine for his thoughts to pass through. You are safe. He cannot reach you."

Khimil tries to believe him. Tar-Mairon is angry, so angry... but...

Nothing has happened.

Tar-Mairon is angry.

Nothing has happened.

He does not know how much time passes in the garden, only that the shadows have changed. Rhun is by his feet. The king has not moved. The queen has joined him. Nightingales surround them, silent and watchful. Tar-Mairon is angry. 

Nothing happens.


	7. Between the Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of disassociation and discussion thereof.

Tar-Mairon's anger is palpable. It is as though Khimil is ever standing in the wake of a sacrificial pyre, sparks striking his mind as the breeze of Tar-Mairon's attention shifts about. But Khimil gave his word to Elu Thingol, and he has - he did not realize at the time - he has confidences that he does not _want_ to give Tar-Mairon. The very idea is staggering; Khimil prods it like a missing tooth. Alone with Rhun in his rooms, he says aloud, "I do not _want_ Tar-Mairon within my mind once more." He waits hours for the consequences of Tar-Mairon's anger to find him, but there are none. Tar-Mairon has not heard him. Rhun flings himself onto his side with great vigor and goes to sleep.

Still Tar-Mairon's anger does not abate. He sees the queen or her nightingale attendants each day. At least, he is almost certain that it is every day: Khimil finds himself losing time, as he used to in Numenor. Elu Thingol has time-pieces throughout his palace, more than Khimil has ever seen in a single place, and he is grateful for them. Rhun also helps; he will not tolerate any tardiness when it comes to his needs, and digs at Khimil's feet and hands until he is satisfied, and licks Khimil's face until he stirs enough to pet the rabbit's fur. It is helpful, but it is not enough. Still, Khimil has been taught well, and whatever hours he loses, it is all nothingness underneath his empty, drained-away roads. The queen seems satisfied with this. 

Elu Thingol is not.

The second time Khimil loses track of the dining hour, a servant comes to fetch him. The third time, Elu Thingol comes to his rooms instead, with attendants bearing food. Khimil is sorry to have troubled the king over such a trivial thing, but Thingol does not accept his apology. 

"Tell me why this is," says Elu Thingol. Khimil does not need to ask what he means.

"I am sorry," Khimil says again, "I have not suffered this malady since I was in Numenor. It is of no concern."

"And yet, I find myself so," the king counters. "Your attendant came to me distraught, saying that she had found you staring at the wall, still in your nightclothes, and that she had to call several times before you heard her."

Khimil flushes, ashamed. "I am sorry I caused her distress. I will be more attentive in the future."

"That," says Elu Thingol, "concerns me not at all. The nature of this 'malady' is my concern. You say that this happened commonly in Numenor; what of here in Aman?"

"A little at first," Khimil admits, eyes downcast, "but it passed soon enough. I beg you not take it as a slight against your hospitality that my trouble has begun again; I am sure it was inevitable."

" _I_ am sure that it has to do with Gorthaur," says Thingol dryly. "It was frequent in Numenor, abated in the house of Indis, and now it has begun again? Yes, I think so." He looks at Khimil with something like pity. "You had nowhere to retreat," Thingol says, "save within your own rhaw. It is instinct - reflex if you like - that you do so now, when he can no longer find you."

Khimil blinks up at him. He has never considered it in that light; it is only an unfortunate, distressing illness that frustrated Tar-Mairon. _Were_ they connected? Tar-Mairon had forgotten him in Valinor until now. "It is not deliberate, I swear to you..."

"Reflex, as I said," Thingol says, dismissing Khimil's assurance. Khimil's eyes go wide as the king goes on to say, "I am sorry that our work has stirred it again." 

Khimil raises his hands, but draws them back again, torn. It is dangerous - but Tar-Mairon has not heard him, not even once. His inner roads are burning-hot, but empty. Khimil decides. "Please," he says, "do not be sorry. I, I am _so grateful._ To you and the queen Melian." He clasps his hands together in front of his raw chest and bows over them. "I could never have imagined this. I still cannot imagine it sometimes."

"We are glad to aid you," Thingol says gravely. "Khimil of Numenor, you have been resisting a great Power, alone and unaided, for hundreds of years. That you are here now is a testament to your strength and endurance. That you are wounded after such struggle is inevitable."

"I did not resist Tar-Mairon, I only - I sought to avoid his anger," Khimil protests. His face feels hot; Elu Thingol is not generous with praise.

"You are not his creature," Elu Thingol tells him, "for all that he tried to make you so. That is a victory worth great acclaim."

Khimil searches the king's expression. _He is not Tar-Mairon's creature._ Elu Thingol does not think that he belongs to Tar-Mairon. Tar-Mairon's mark on Khimil's heart is gone, by the power of the queen Melian. Tar-Mairon cannot find his mind any more, by the power of the king Elu Thingol. "That is by your efforts and the queen's," he says. 

"We only gave you the tools and some measure of safety," Thingol tells him. His voice sharpens, saying, "I shall not have you decry your accomplishment! You were besieged, and you endured. Now we have bolstered your defenses, but it is _you_ who withstood Gorthaur's most intimate blandishments, on the most unequal footing imaginable. I cannot think of many who would not have fallen to him in such a span."

"As you say," Khimil says, dipping his head. He thinks of Tar-Mairon's lesser priests, who worshipped Tar-Mairon even more than Great Mulkher. They had not been bound to Tar-Mairon by anything but their own choice. Perhaps that is what Elu Thingol wishes to convey? Khimil does not think Elu Thingol will be angry if he asks as much, and so he does.

"Exactly so," says Thingol. "Many would have become akin to them in your place."

"Tar-Mairon is difficult to resist," Khimil says quietly. If he had not had his dreams of family and blood, friends and stone, if he had truly had nothing but Tar-Mairon - yes, Khimil thinks he would have become just as devoted as Tar-Mairon's priests, if not more. But Elu Thingol does not love Feanor's line, and he will not want to hear that dreams of them aided Khimil.

"And yet you did," says Elu Thingol. Khimil's face is warm again, and he does not know what to say in response. 

Thingol chooses to continue speaking, and Khimil is thankful for it. "Melian considers you to have integrated our work successfully. My final concern was for this illness, and I judge there is nothing to be done for it here that cannot be done more easily in your own home. You may return to Valmar with our blessing."

Khimil bows again. "The fullness of my gratitude outnumbers the stars." He has never meant the words more.


	8. On Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: With this chapter title, I probably don't have to warn you about discussions of sexual assault, do I? Mentions of culturally-sanctioned rape and child sexual abuse.

Elu Thingol provides a carriage to return Khimil to Valmar. He is grateful for it; Khimil is not sure he could find his way back to the house of queen-dowager Indis unaided. He has almost tripped over Rhun thrice now, and still loses time to Tar-Mairon's anger. He looks at the forest as they travel, and endures Tar-Mairon's simmering fury over the surface of his mind, but Khimil has buried his thoughts so deeply that he cannot even hear Tar-Mairon's voice. He stops Rhun from chewing a hole in the cushions several times, and listens to the birds. A nightingale flits in through the open window, plucking a bit of fur from Rhun, who stomps his feet at her. Khimil makes a swift sketch of the moment for Amarie, who will find it amusing. It is a pleasant journey, in all.

Indis seems pleased that Khimil has returned; she praises Rhun for his restraint regarding chewing in Elu Thingol's home, and asks about Khimil's comfort on the journey, and about meeting Elu Thingol and the queen Melian. She has prepared foods Khimil is fond of, and lets him rest after they eat, and is very kind. Khimil notices that there is less tension in his back and shoulders than before. It is good to return.

The queen-dowager gives him several days before she comes to find him. "Here, sit with me," the queen says, and Khimil sits by her side on the divan. Their legs touch; it would be the height of impropriety in Numenor, but the queen finds it unremarkable. Her body is warm, and Khimil is reminded of Celebrimbor's mother, and of his own long-ago nursemaid before Tar-Mairon had sacrificed her. He is not reminded of Tar-Mairon, for all that he was the only one who sat with Khimil thus.

"I am going to ignore who he is and what he has done for now," says Indis, "and speak only as one who is wed, and who parted with her husband. It is poorly done when one spouse always yields to the other. It is no good for the spouse who bends, of course, but it is also terrible for the one who always prevails! It is not natural for one spouse to rule another."

Khimil listens politely; he knows what the queen is trying to do, and it is kind of her to try. Of course it is not relevant to Khimil's own life, but it is rude to interrupt. She will not be pleased if he does.

"That was our fate, Finwe and I. I was so grateful to have him at all that I did not protest some things I ought have. He became arrogant and selfish, and I came to resent him."

"I could never resent Tar-Mairon," Khimil says blankly. 

"No, not yet," says Indis gently. "But I never feared Finwe, either, and Tar-Mairon frightened you at times, yes?"

This is true enough; Khimil nods. "Tar-Mairon's anger is dreadful to behold," he says. "But he did not..." He searches for words. "...It vexes him," he says at last, and squeezes his fingers together tightly. "When I am afraid. It vexes him terribly. Tar-Mairon has never harmed me," he adds, because that is very important.

"Then he should be pleased," the queen-dowager says, lifting her chin. "That you are defying him in this. You have trammeled yourself all about for fear of Tar-Mairon, and now you are reaching beyond those boundaries."

"Tar-Mairon does not like to be defied!" Khimil warns her sharply. He is very fond of the queen-dowager.

"No one does," Indis agrees, though she does not sound chastened. "But a spouse should be able to do so without fear. It is _good_ for Tar-Mairon that you defy him in this."

"Queen-dowager..." Khimil trails off. She is not right to say such things, but how is he to tell her? What if she feels she has been decieved, and is angry? What if she tells him that he is _wrong?_

The queen-dowager waits, much longer than even the most persistent courtier. Khimil cannot put his thoughts together into words.

"I am sorry," he begins. Yes, that is a good beginning. "I meant no dishonesty, but..." No, he cannot start off with such a bald statement. "It is the custom here," he tries again, "Among elves. I knew it would be thought as much, but it is not so in Numenor. I am not... Tar-Mairon is not... We are not _wed,_ " Khimil explains, almost tripping over the words as they occur to him. 

Indis looks at him, astonished. "But you are... joined? As spouses are?"

Khimil wrings his hands; it is a terrible habit, but he cannot seem to stop. He nods. "Men do not, do not connect their spirits when they lay with one another," he says, fixing his gaze on his hands and refusing to look at the queen-dowager. It is unbearably crass, but she does not know. His face is burning-hot. "So it was not, in Numenor, it is - Men may lay with whomever they choose and not be wed. It is common for... I belonged to Tar-Mairon, and so it was his right to lay with me if he pleased. It was lawful."

" _What?_ " Indis says, drawing back. Khimil cringes away from her, ducking his shoulders. "No, no," she says, putting her hands atop his, "I am not angry at you, but at him! _He_ knew very well what he did even if Men would not!"

"It was his right," Khimil says again. "It would not have been legal for a man to wed his slave even if he desired it, and I was never freed."

The queen embraces him, suddenly and fiercely. Her body is warm, her scent only of fresh greenery. Her arms are thinner and her skin darker than Tar-Mairon's. She strokes his back, as a mother with her child, as Celebrimbor's mother had done, and Khimil rests his head against her shoulder. It is not the same as embracing Tar-Mairon at all. 

"I am so sorry, Khimil," she says, "I have gone about this all wrong! Please, forgive me."

"You have been - you have been very kind," Khimil says, and is horrified to find that he is crying. 

"But not of much aid," says Indis. "I am sorry, I had thought - that you cared for Sauron, as a spouse would, and I thought to reach you that way."

It has never been a matter of caring or not caring for Tar-Mairon, but Khimil finds himself saying instead, "He wanted Celebrimbor. He wanted Celebrimbor with him for ever, but all he had was me." He is still weeping, he will ruin her dress, but Indis only holds him the more tightly. His arms are drawn up against himself uncomfortably, and he unfolds them, curving them around Indis's waist. He can feel her ribcage move underneath his hands, and finds himself clutching at her, he must be squeezing too tightly, but she makes no sign.

"I could not be Celebrimbor for him," Khimil says thickly, his throat tight. "But I dreamed of his life, each night! We grew apace, he was always exactly my age. Tar-Mairon said my, my dreams meant nothing, but he knew, he _knew,_ and he waited until - he waited until -" He has to stop, he does not know how to say it, he does not _want_ to say it. Her arms around him are strong, and she does not make him go on. 

She tells him it is all right, and he is safe now, and she hums to him as a mother would, and it is of his own will that he goes on. He's almost unable to, stumbling over words, gagging on his own ugly noises. "He waited until Celebrimbor - wanted him, in my dreams. I had, I had always been waiting, I _knew_ what he wanted me for. I always knew. I was so afraid, he could have done _anything,_ it was his right. I listened to other slaves talk about - about young boys being ruined, and what priests would do to sacrifices behind the curtains, and I was _so afraid!_ " 

Khimil turns his face down, against Indis's wet shoulder. He does not want to look at her, he does not want to see her face. "And he laughed at me, he laughed and said he would never hurt me, and, and he didn't, he, it was... he..." His voice drops, he does not _want_ to go on, but he has to, she will not understand. "...he made me beg for it. For him. And I knew we would be connected, but I... it was his right, and he, he was considerate, it did not hurt at all, and I was _so relieved,_ but then he was _everywhere!_ He was _everywhere_ afterward."

He waits, but Indis does not correct him as he feared. She does not say he really _is_ wed to Tar-Mairon, she does not say he should have at least _tried_ to refuse. She does not say anything at all for a long time.

"You have been so brave," she says at last, soothes him like a child. "It was not your fault, Khimil." Her arms around him are very tight, and though Indis could never hope to defeat Tar-Mairon, Khimil feels protected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Indis really shouldn't have hugged Khimil without warning, but this is not a situation she's dealt with before.


	9. At Home

Indis - he is not sure if it is still appropriate to refer to her as the queen-dowager - asks if she may speak to the Valar about what happened to him. "In case they can help in some fashion," she says, and Khimil, puzzled, gives his permission. It is hardly a secret, or difficult to reason out - had they not already known?

She chooses to run up the mountain, carrying finer clothing with her to change into. "It gives me time to think," Indis explains, and Khimil nods. He is gardening, filling in some of the tunnels that Rhun has dug. They are mostly in Khimil's own portion of the garden, at least. It is very pleasant to put his hands and tools into the earth, to plant and safekeep the young lettuces that the queen gifted him. The warmth from the sunlight on his back makes it easier to ignore Tar-Mairon's ever-present anger. 

"Amarie might come by," Indis mentions, and Khimil looks from his hands to his clothing, worried. He is not dressed for guests. Indis sees this, and shakes her head, smiling. "Don't worry about propriety; I'm sure you've seen Finrod at work in his greenhouses." Khimil nods, but thinks he will soon bathe and make himself presentable anyway. Perhaps he will make the sketch for Amarie into a watercolor - that is neater work than gardening. Even if it is not completed by her arrival, the thought will please her. 

Indis leaves, and Khimil begins to put away the gardening tools and retrieve Rhun from his latest excavation. The house is quiet without Indis's presence; her servants have their own homes, and come and go when needed. The palace of Elu Thingol and Melian was much busier. Khimil enjoys the quiet, and does not think he loses more time than an hour when he changes clothing. (He thinks, uncomfortably, that he may know why he so commonly loses himself when disrobing or bathing. It is just as well that he has not attempted any forge-work; Tar-Mairon had loved to watch him there as well. He strokes Rhun's fur and wishes futilely for Indis. He believes she would not mind embracing him again, if perhaps he asked.)

He takes his watercoloring to the front gardens to wait; it is pleasant there, and he will not have to look at things in his own garden that he still means to do. Rhun settles into a warm round shape underneath Khimil's chair, and it is very peaceful. Tar-Mairon's anger seems very far away indeed.

Khimil knows when Amarie arrives, as he usually does, because Rhun hears her first and comes out from beneath the chair, ears cocked toward the gate. Rhun is not alarmed, and Khimil is almost through with his painting, which is pleasing, and so he goes to greet Amarie with a light heart. 

"Khimil," Amarie says, smiling, "You look well! I've brought a welcome-home present from Finrod, he's in the middle of fixing some new fountain in one of the greenhouses right now and says he'll be by once he's done."

Khimil bows and ushers her into the garden, feeling the corners of his lips pull upward without any thought on his part. "I am glad to hear it," he says. "I am afraid I have no gift for him in return, beyond that which I already sent." That had been a copy of Melian's runes; Finrod preferred the arts of Song, but Khimil thought he might find it interesting regardless. "Still, perhaps he will also enjoy what I am working on now for you; I thought it might be amusing. If you will?"

Amarie laughs when she sees the watercolor, Rhun stomping a foot as a nightingale teases him, and Khimil considers that well worth the time he has spent on it. Khimil is smiling again as he fetches tea for them both; Amarie strokes Rhun's head and tells him that he must have been _very_ put-upon. 

"It's lovely," Amarie says to Khimil himself over tea. "You found the time to sketch in Elwe's palace?"

"Yes," Khimil answers softly. "Though this in particular was from the journey back. The king and queen thought that I should rest after their intervention, and... I found myself much desirous of paper and ink."

Amarie asks to see the rest of his sketches, and Khimil shows her his notebook. "These are a bit of everything, it seems," she says, admiring a study of one of the chairs in Khimil's rooms. It had been elegantly carved, and he had been careful to save it from Rhun. "You didn't have anything in particular in mind to draw?" She looks up at him, and Khimil knows she is asking about more than the sketches. It is very kind of her. He finds he does not mind speaking of it; Tar-Mairon is very far away, though his heat prickles against Khimil's mind, and he cannot hear them.

"The king and queen," Khimil begins softly, "What they did..." He raises a hand to his chest, almost touching the raw wound. It is healing quickly, but it is not yet whole. He keeps it bandaged so that it cannot seep into his shirts and ruin them. "It is as though I have never seen anything before; everything is new to me. I could not help but think no one else would ever see things right at that moment, in that way, ever again. I am stricken by beauty everywhere I turn." 

"I can tell, I think," she says, tracing Khimil's impression of a nightingale in flight. "These seem very joyful to me, but I have always heard that Elwe Singollo's realm was solemn."

"They miss their daughter," Khimil says thoughtlessly, but after the words pass his lips, he understands that it is so. Her name was not spoken in those halls, but the spaces she should have been were clear.

"Of course, they must," Amarie agrees. "Findarato was afraid Elwe would refuse to help you?"

"He was not pleased," Khimil tells her, very quietly. "Not at first. But I, I told him that I was not of Feanor's line, and I believe it warmed his heart toward me. He and the queen Melian were very kind, and not only regarding the matter at hand."

Amarie's eyes brighten as she smiles. "I am glad to hear that, Khimil!" Khimil thinks she is restraining some gesture; he remembers that he is allowed, and offers her his hands. She had wanted to take his hands before, when they first met, but he had winced away and she had stopped at once. Now, Amarie takes his hands in hers and squeezes carefully. They are cool, small hands, with calluses, and it is not quite so good as Indis's embrace, but still very pleasant. Her smile is easily as brilliant as her fiancee's, and that is also pleasant.

Tar-Mairon cannot feel his pleasure and comfort, Khimil knows this, because Tar-Mairon had always responded at once when anyone else touched him. It had not been safe. But Tar-Mairon does _not_ know, and he will not know as long as Khimil is vigilant. For this, Khimil will guard himself forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this chapter took forever is probably because it's full of nice things for Khimil. Anyway, sorry for the brevity! I tried to cram more in there and it was just not happening.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amidst the Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100816) by [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin)




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